


lord of my love

by tentatively



Category: Literary RPF, Shakespeare RPF | Elizabethan & Jacobean Theater RPF, Will (TV 2017)
Genre: 16th Century CE, Christopher Marlowe is a Legend, Elizabethan England, Elizabethan Era, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gratuitous use of Master Shakespeare, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Shakespeare RPF - Freeform, Tenderness, and Shakespeare was whipped for him you can't convince me otherwise, discussions about god, tamburlaine the great
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23896891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tentatively/pseuds/tentatively
Summary: In which there is ale, Scythian shepherds and an inescapable fate.
Relationships: Christopher Marlowe/William Shakespeare
Comments: 2
Kudos: 23





	lord of my love

Christopher Marlowe could not be tamed; Will truly believed that if the intolerant minions of the Queen’s government ever put the man in manacles, he would laugh- most mockingly- and perhaps with a snap of his fingers, break open the chains. Will also never thought that Kit Marlowe would ever take a liking to the new playwright who had arrived in London, his eyes shining with an exuberant ambition. Rather, he had expected a cold reception from the lanky playwright, scrutinizing his work with those keen, green eyes and then internally dismissing them as amateurish.

But he had walked through the door into the backstage after Will’s very first play was performed in London, and had greeted him saying, “Well done, Master Shakespeare,” – with an impressed glint in those intelligent eyes. Will had forgotten how to process thoughts, or how to form words for an embarrassing span of seconds, before he said, “Thank you,” – maybe a little breathlessly, overwhelmed with the positive reception of his first play, the praises, and the presence of the other playwright.

* * *

The next time they had encountered one another was at a tavern close to where Will was lodging; Will had taken his neighbour, a tall lad called Richard who wanted the former to taste London’s ale. There, after he had already downed one full tankard, and had taken to watching his friend drunkenly sing and occasionally fluster himself before pretty maidens, he noticed the familiar lanky, bony frame, and upon further squinting of his eyes, he recognized the same tunic from the other day at the theatre. Will did not know what had taken over him but there was, within him, an indescribable urge to not only befriend London’s most loved playwright but also stare into those mossy green fairytales which Kit Marlowe called his eyes.

Upon introspection later on, Will had arrived at the conclusion that he had made a complete and utter clown of himself that day. Not knowing what to do, he had pushed, rather vehemently, a mid toned, black haired lad sitting right across Kit, to make room for himself on the bench. “Who are you-” he turned to face Will, readying himself to push the slightly wasted playwright away, when Kit stopped him. “Thomas, its Master Shakespeare.”

“The new playwright?” he inquired, shifting reluctantly to make space for Will to sit.

“How are we finding London’s ale?” Kit asked, calling on a waitress to _bring another tankard for our new friend here_. “Did you come here alone?”

“Oh, no,” Will answered, hanging onto every one of Kit’s words. “I have a neighbour called Richard. It was him who dragged me here.”

“Well, its a good thing he did, wouldn’t you say?” Kit said, passing the curly brunette a mischievous grin.

“I would,” Will said, feeling increasingly small before the intent gaze of Marlowe. He passed Will the freshly ordered tankard encouragingly. “Nothing better to stimulate the flow of words, I tell you, Master Shakespeare.”

“Please, just call me Will,” Will smiled, shy and timid, mind a little clogged and dizzy.

“Will it is, then,” Kit said, raising his glass, and eyeing the band of people around him to do the same. “To William Shakespeare’s debut in the London theatre!” he called out, and the others chimed in. A blonde lady with a bony face, stormy grey eyes, thin lips and slender nose giggled in Will’s direction, positioning herself beside him.

Paying her not more than what minimum courtesy demands, Will turned his attention to Kit. “Are you working on something?” he asked, intruding Thomas’ very obvious flirtation, the latter throwing him a dirty glare.

“Oh, yes, I am,” Marlowe replied, seemingly more interested in him than the advances being made towards him. He rose from his seat and on the little spot on Will’s right, he most gracefully settled down. “But it is not quite what you’re thinking of.”

“It isn’t?”

Marlowe shook his head, and threw Will a very unguarded, sincere look, head low and secretive glint in his eyes. “Do you know what blasphemy is, Master Shakespeare?”

Will wasn’t sure where he was getting at, but he sure had heard a few flying rumours about Kit Marlowe’s dangerous enigma. “Questioning the infallibility of things considered infallible.”

“I have a good mind to take you home,” Kit laughed, wryly, pouring himself another tankard of ale. “Thomas will most definitely propose the same at the end of tonight, but I’d rather you take me.”

That is what had happened. Will ended up carrying Kit home, not that he was in any perfect sober state- it was a bit of mutual leaning, brushing of hands threatening to be held, a rain that appeared most surprisingly, and Will and Kit heartily laughing out, no, _roaring_ under the spell of rain and the spell of alcohol having loosened their hearts.

As Kit slammed the door behind them, he flung onto his couch, head thrown back, still recovering from their revel. “I’m sure they are plotting to have me murdered,” Kit mumbled, still grinning.

“Who?” Will asked, plopping down on the spot in front of Kit, ruffling his hair to feel its wetness.

“Oh, why, England,” Marlowe casually said, half sitting. “Or even if they aren’t yet, they will very soon.”

Will decidedly remained quiet, studying Kit’s face for any sign of anger, or more appropriately, fear. He wasn’t surprised when he found neither.

“But I’m not an easy catch,” Kit retorted, laughing a little at his own words. “Not to the tavern-goers or to the Queen’s god-fearing ministers.”

“Why is it that they want you?” Will asked, wanting to know firsthand whether the many slanderous rumours were true, and if so, to what extent.

“Why, you ask?” Kit said, amusedly. “You yourself pointed it out back in the tavern. I have questioned the infallible.”

“God?” Will asked, a little unsure this time, conscious of whether any first conversation should go this far.

“Yes,” Kit said, unbothered, slipping down from the couch onto the floor before Will. His eyes were shutting close rapidly, and Will realized that the playwright was too intoxicated to remain awake. A tired chuckle escaped Kit’s mouth, and he added, “Non-believers are damned, they say.” Will lifted him up, surprised at how light he was, and gently placed him on his bed. “You should probably not go to sleep in these damp clothes,” Will muttered, unsure eyes shifting uncomfortably.

“Take it off,” Kit said, not even bothering to open his eyes, and settling comfortably with his cushion. Pursing his lips, Will slowly unbuttoned Kit’s dark tunic with considerably shaky fingers- Will had never been this intimate with a man before and the gnawing sensation at the back of his mind that he was possibly quite _enjoying_ it, was definitely scandalizing. Pulling up the blanket to cover Kit’s naked upper body, he debated whether that was the moment he was supposed to leave. Without any further word from Kit, he took that as a cue to leave, heart thrumming wildly against the bones keeping it in place.

* * *

As if suddenly, everything in the universe was pointing him in one direction, or rather, towards one person, Will found a poster for a Marlowe play stuck against one of the houses nearby, and he looked at it keenly, making up his mind to go see it. It was being performed that very day and somewhere in his mind he recalled that Kit had, in fact, mentioned it the night before, to Thomas. The playwright was to be there, too.

Will found himself in a frenzied crowd, waiting for the actors to appear onstage. The theatre was full and he caught fragments of conversations of men and women, chatting about their previous experiences of Marlowe plays. One woman remarked that this was the second time for her coming to the theatre to watch _Tamburlaine the Great_ , and she assured another three women who had come along with her, that it was worth every penny. London sure loved Kit. _It wasn’t a surprise,_ Will remembered thinking to himself, right before a band of men appeared on stage.

Will watched, enthralled, caught in the intricately designed characters playing before him. _Tamburlaine_ is a hero, and he is also a tyrant, a killer. Distractedly, Will’s ears caught a sideways remark being passed by a grey-haired, wrinkled old man, standing behind him. “Trust Marlowe to defame God,” he chuckled humourlessly, apparently to a companion beside him. Disgust churned within Will but he restrained his will to turn around and give the dogmatic, rusty man a piece of his mind.

The play ended with the loudest roar of applause he had ever witnessed, and Will, entranced, clapped till his palms went noticeably red. He trudged to the backstage, hoping to surprise Kit Marlowe.

As he removed the curtains, he immediately caught a fleeting glimpse of the playwright, who had his back turned to Will, and was speaking with excited gesticulations to the owner of the theatre. “It isn’t long before they shackle me up for this,” Will heard Kit talk, and laugh, leaning against a doorframe. “But you’re not to worry. London has just been blessed with a new, masterful playwright by the name of William Shakespeare.”

Will gaped at the unanticipated praise from Kit and took a step forward. But he didn’t utter a word, waiting for Kit to find Will himself. Soon enough, Kit turned around and a small gasp escaped his lips at the sight of him. “Bravo, Master Marlowe,” Will said, an imitation of Kit himself, stepping towards the sharp-faced man.

Before Will could say anything, Kit edged closer and shot him something close to a glare. “Was it very knightly to leave me in the middle of the night?” Christopher questioned, and for a second, Will’s mind went completely blank.

When he finally gathered what he was talking about, he creased his eyebrows and answered doubtfully, with difficulty. “I wasn’t sure I should have stayed?”

“Tell me, Will. Would you bring home a young and endearing playwright home with you at night and expect him to disappear when you wake up in the morning?” Kit raised an eyebrow, but before Will could answer, he waved his hands dismissively, cutting him off. “So, how did you like _Tamburlaine_?”

“Oh, I was enchanted,” Will beamed. “I can now see the measure of your genius. It compels me to want to read other pieces that you may be presently working on.”

“Genius, you say?” Kit asked, shrugging, a small smile curling up the corners of his mouth. “Most of London’s common folk don’t see the underlying doubts thrown at those using the Almighty’s name to exercise unhindered power in Tamburlaine’s character. As loved as this play is, it has also pushed me into trouble with government officials.”

“I heard you,” Will finally said, voice soft and low. “When you unexpectedly dropped my name before the theatre’s owner.”

“How long have you been standing there, watching me, Will?” Kit asked, chortling, clasping his hands together.

“Long enough, I suppose,” Will smiled heartily.

* * *

Will had knocked over four times and standing outside Kit’s door for a good fifteen minutes without any response. He could tell that playwright was inside by the candle’s light through the window. “Kit,” he called out. “It’s me, Will. Please open the door for me.”

As if on cue, the London sky broke down in heavy rains and Will muttered a curse under his breath. “Kit, please, my love,” Will pleaded, knocking still, now a little worried. “Please open up. It is raining outside.”

That seemed to work as the front door opened within the next two minutes, revealing a dishevelled, distraught Christopher Marlowe who refused to lock eyes with him. “Step in,” he whispered, and mouth agape, Will did as he was told. Kit shut the door behind him, and the sound of the rains ceased to a faint pattering.

“Kit, what’s wrong?” Will asked, holding Kit’s thin wrist. He wrung it free and trudged ahead, sinking into his chair before a havoc of papers. Kit was staring at the space before him, but at nothing in particular. His eyes seemed possessed and pained, his thin hands were trembling. Will impulsively pulled him into an embrace, and when Kit did not flinch or push him away, he planted a kiss on his forehead.

“I cannot find Hell,” Kit abruptly said, leaning against the warmth of Will’s body. “All these people talk about God as if they have seen Him, as if they know the drab drudgeries of the place they term as Hell.”

“Kit,” Will sighed, looking deep into his lover’s eyes, searching for the right words to calm his mind and heart. “You will never find what you’re looking for. You haven’t sinned to be unfortunate enough to have a glimpse of Hell.”

“Certainly,” Kit retorted venomously, shifting away from William. “I cannot find God either, my darling. I thought, perhaps, he didn’t want to see me as I was so impure, so I resorted on a quest to find Hell.”

“ _Hell is empty, and all the devils are here_ ,” Will mused, closing his eyes. “Not believing in the Almighty is not a sin, my love.”

“Is it not?” Kit bellowed, gritting his teeth. It was soon replaced by a devilish smirk. “Do you realize, Master Shakespeare, the implications of what you just said?”

“Yes, I do, Kit,” Will shuddered at the sudden venom in Kit’s words, the ragged edges which were threatening to cut him open. “But that doesn’t make me a non-believer.”

“You are a coward!” Kit’s voice rose dangerously and his breathing became ragged. “You are a coward who takes peace in the thought that there is something unexplainable you believe in, even if it is merely customary.”

Will was alarmed at the comment, sighing deeply, shoulders sinking. “Will that idea please you? Then, so be it.”

“Oh, don’t you play games with me, Will,” Kit cried out, nails digging into the skin of his face. “Don’t you see how much I suffer; don’t you see the restlessness keeping me up at nights?”

Will took his hand within his own and intertwined them before kissing his knuckles softly. “Whoever God is, He only wishes for us to live a life to the fullest, without harming anybody else. What is Hell, Kit, but life reflecting back at oneself? What is an afterlife but your soul kept alive through the ones you hold dear?”

Tears were loosely escaping, rolling down Kit’s eyes, as he grasped at the fabric of Will’s tunic tightly, crumpling it. “My soul is most tortured then, Will,” Kit murmured, his body shaking, and his eyes swimming with a hollow pain. Will lifted his face so he could face him, and bringing it closer, placed a wet kiss on his quivering lips.

* * *

Will was running.

He was in the midst of writing one of his best poems- he could feel it in his bones- but as soon as word reached him, he frantically rushed out of his little room, forgetting all about Roman goddesses and their mortal lovers.

London’s wet roads suddenly felt longer and more winding; the people too many for him to dodge them fast enough as his heart raced anxiously. Once he reached the familiar wooden door frame, he banged loudly, loud enough to make people on the road stare at him as if he were some madman- and perhaps, he was, in that moment. But the door was open, and he entered almost tripping on himself. “Kit,” he said, fear shaking his voice and he placed a tentative hand on Kit’s cheeks. “They are going to kill you, Kit.”

“Well, apparently, it is just an invite to an audience with the Queen’s men,” Kit said, smiling weakly, but it was clear that the same fear had held him captive as well.

“Don’t go to Deptford, Kit,” Will pleaded, kneeling down before him. “I have a twisted feeling in my gut that they are inviting you to your death trap.”

“I must,” Kit meekly said, and Will’s heart broke at the smallness of his voice. It was the same Kit Marlowe- the invincible, the fearless, the free and brave Kit Marlowe, and yet, not quite. They had broken him down; cut down his wings and now he was bleeding profusely, waiting on death to arrive and relieve him of the torture of living.

“I cannot lose you, Kit,” Will brokenly said, burying his face at the conjunction of their intertwined hands. “My heart will be torn into pieces if I have you no more.”

“That is what all men say,” Kit said, raising Will’s face to look at his glistening eyes. “And perhaps, yes, it is true. But love will come to you again, Will, and fill your heart with greater joy than I could ever give you. Loving me has been a harrowing trial. Loving me is loving a devil. But a devil must meet his demise and so shall I.”

“They are blind, Kit,” Will desperately said, holding onto his beloved with trembling hands. “These blind, foolish, ignorant tyrants don’t deserve to have a hand in your death. You are a glorious man, Christopher Marlowe, deserving of a glorious death.”

“I have you,” Kit calmly said. “I will live on in you, if you permit it. As you yourself have said, Master Shakespeare, afterlife is nothing but one’s soul kept alive in their near and dear ones.”

Will exhaled, the weight of his own words crushing him down. He suddenly felt a lack of air, as if breathing was more difficult, and his heart was protesting so violently that he had the impression it might burst. “You have so much more to give,” Will breathed out, clutching at the mattress beneath him.

“I cannot run anymore, Will, and neither do I want to,” Kit softly said. “And who knows? Maybe the Queen’s men don’t intend to kill me after all.”

Will crashed his lips against Kit’s with a passion unknown to him, and straddled him on his lap. He gnawed at the junction of his neck and shoulders, making Kit shudder at the sensation. “I love you, Christopher Marlowe,” Will uttered against his neck, but it sounded like a plea, a broken plea. “Even if the whole world wants you to perish, I will not let them kill you. I will not let them kill your beautiful soul.”

“So I have the permission?” Kit laughed, as stray tears leaked out of those dark green eyes. “You are destined for greatness, Master Shakespeare. You will be my last ever thought so that even the most gruesome of deaths may feel peaceful.”

Kit never returned. In May, news of Kit Marlowe’s death reached him, and he was filled with a painful numbness, crumbling the remnants of his heart. He had known this was inevitable- they both had- and yet, William had hoped that by some miracle, Kit would return, alive and well, into Will’s loving arms. Now all that was left of Christopher Marlowe was in him, and William vowed to never let _anyone_ kill his brilliant love’s soul.

**Author's Note:**

> The quote, "Hell is empty, and all the devils are here" is from 'The Tempest' which I know happens to be one of Shakespeare's last completed plays, so there is every chance that he hadn't come up with the idea during Christopher Marlowe's life but I couldn't resist using it as it fitted the circumstance so well. Ehehe, so yeah x
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](https://crankylightwood.tumblr.com) and share your sharlowe prompts with me and maybe I'll make a fic out of it, who knows?


End file.
